Last Letter
by armageddon-incarnate
Summary: [Bare, a Pop Opera] Dear Jason...


Last Letter

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A/n: Written in an hour, tops. I cried. I hate the ending. Run-on sentances and fragments kick ASS. Just in case you didn't know.

Disclaimer: I do not own Bare; Jon Hartmere and Damon Intrabartlo do. I also do not own Easter Rising, from which the title comes; Michael Arden (aka God) does.

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Peter froze. He still couldn't seem to write his lover's name without smelling his scent. He had read somewhere that although the sense of smell is the most underdeveloped, smells stay with you the longest.

Peter shook his head. He couldn't be thinking about smell. He needed to get this out, needed to write this letter before he exploded.

_Dear Jason,_

He sighed. The words on the page, in blue ink, stared back at him. Why had he decided to do it in ink? Why not pencil? Ink was so permanent, so… there. You couldn't erase ink.

Just like you couldn't erase the past.

Peter breathed in, then out. This had to be done. He had to write it before he did something utterly stupid.

His track record wasn't the best in that area.

_Dear Jason,_

I love you. I mean… you know that, right? Well… 

He was rambling. While writing. Why couldn't he ever say the right things? It was too late now, far too late, to try and say the right things.

God, WHY was he doing this? He threw down the pen angrily, then ripped the paper into two.

Shit.

Why did he have to feel this way?

He was going to explode. His stomach twisted, his head pounded suddenly. He closed his eyes. Either he was going to be sick, or he was going to cry, and he didn't want to do either. He was tired of feeling this way.

Reaching for the bedside table, he grabbed another clean sheet of lined paper, and tried to begin again.

_Dear Jason,_

Dear Jason what, dear Jason what? What was he going to say that was going to make any difference? He was going to be graduating in four hours, graduating without Jason. Nothing mattered anymore.

Peter noticed the hand holding the pen was shaking. He hadn't shook since they had kissed that day in September, the day he knew that no matter how sinful, something that felt so right had to be a good thing.

It felt like decades ago, that first day he had clung to Jason and let all his fears and worries go.

How? How had it gone from that single kiss to that day at the rehearsal? How had their love, so pure and simple, gotten twisted and convoluted with things unsaid?

_Dear Jason,_

How did a simple love get complicated? 

The words sprung from his pen in a flurry of tears. He wiped them away for what felt like the millionth time. He was sick and tired of crying. It felt like he had been crying for years, with no respite. He wanted it to go away, he wanted the world to go away. If his life was to creep by like this, so slowly, he wanted it to be spent with Jason.

_Dear Jason, _

How did a simple love get complicated? Days crawl by… 

It was another sentence. Another thing unsaid, another truth that hadn't been voiced. Would it have ever been voiced, had Jason not died? If Peter had done what Jason wanted, would any of the torture he was going through now happened?

_Dear Jason,_

_How did a simple love get complicated? Days crawl by… I ask myself again: should I have waited? _

He hated him. Hated Jason. Why had he left Peter all alone, to bear the nervous glances of the others? Why had he left him alone to be stared at sadly by Ivy, who loved Jason so much, who could never be loved by the one she loved. Why couldn't Jason have stayed to stand by Peter, to meet the eyes of the others?

Because his parents were there. Jason's father was there, cold Mr. McConnell, and if he knew the truth…

Peter closed his eyes. How could they have ever hoped to be in love without the constant fear of what would happen if everyone found out?

_Dear Jason,_

_How did a simple love get complicated? Days crawl by… I ask myself again: should I have waited? In a world that's quick to judge, I will try to understand. _

What did he mean by that? His brain wasn't a part of writing this letter anymore; it was coming from some place deep inside him, some place that knew although it hurt now- oh god, did it hurt- all Peter could do was pick up the pieces, put them back together, carry the memories of the time they had together with him and move on.

But how? How was he supposed to pick up the pieces when it seemed every part of him was cracked and broken on the floor of their room, shattered into tiny shards of pain and longing. He couldn't put them together, not without his Jason. He needed his Jason back.

_Dear Jason, _

How did a simple love get complicated? Days crawl by… I ask myself again: should I have waited? In a world that's quick to judge, I will try to understand. It's so hard to find your way when you have no voice to guide you.

There. It was done. The pen dropped from Peter's shaky fingers, and tears shimmered in his eyes. He was so tired. Every part of him ached for sleep, for the eternal sleep that would bring his Jason back to him, but he ignored it. He had to graduate. He had to stand up in front of that crowd, face the stares, and accept his diploma. He had to do it for Jason.


End file.
